


Words With Friends

by Rabid1st



Series: Counting the Hours [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meet the Family, Pre-Slash, Rating: PG13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after There It Is, this is a ficlet where Derek contemplates his feelings for Stiles. And has a bonding moment with Sheriff Stilinski. Also, Lydia and Stiles talk about what Stiles does and does not remember or want. It is a set up for later events, really. But I like the Sheriff and Derek, bonding, so I wrote this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words With Friends

**Author's Note:**

> In a funny aside, Linden Ashby, who plays Sheriff Stilinski was asked about his objections to Sterek at the Wolf's Bane con in London today. He said that he didn't care about gender or race, but he wouldn't want his own daughters (or Stiles) hooking up with someone within 5 years of his own age. Tyler Hoechlin had confirmed earlier that even he doesn't know Derek's age, but I bet the year count is closer to Stiles than the Sheriff.

**Title:** Words With Friends  
 **Author:** Rabid1st  
 **Rating:** Teen  
 **Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Derek/Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski, Lydia Martin  
 **Warning(s):** Nothing yet  
 **Spoiler(s):** Set at the start of Season3b, speculation from the 3b Sneak Peek on Revelations  
 **Word Count:** 5300  
 **Summary:** This is a fluffy, pre-slash story. Stiles can't sleep. He's been having bad dreams. Derek comes home and finds Stiles sleeping in his bed. Some embarrassing revelations drive Derek and Stiles to talk things out with others.  
 **Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf and these characters are not mine. This fic represents fair use for fan purposes. 

 

 _Use your words, Derek!_

Stiles wasn't the first person to remark on Derek's reticence when it came to speaking his mind. He'd been a slow developer, like the runt of the litter. Not literally smaller than the rest of his siblings, but rather less inclined to mature into his humanity. Slow to take his place in civilized society. As a child, he'd raced through the woods, half-naked, unwilling to be domesticated. Werewolves born of werewolves didn't age in a strictly linear fashion. They developed sporadically, powers ebbing and flowing with the cycles of earth and moon. So they were generally home-schooled until they learned discipline and manners. When they could control their shifting, they could pass for ordinary people. But Derek didn't want to be ordinary. He wanted to flex his muscles and howl. 

He hadn't spoken at all for the first five years of his life, relying instead on expression and body language to communicate. His family understood him and they were all that mattered in his mind. There was never any indication he was mentally challenged. In fact, he read sooner than the other Hales, not only English, but Greek and Russian and Japanese. He'd picked up the last on his own by watching anime on TV. And he was a joy to his mother, her undisputed favorite. The one Talia felt would, someday, be able to shift into a true wolf form as she could. He broke her heart sometimes with his passionate expressions of pain and love and joy. He broke his own heart, too, throwing it into any endeavor. He was a reckless, obstinate whelp, but charming. He smiled brightly, often in the pursuit of mischief.

Still, if it hadn't been for basketball he might never have come out of the woods. He loved the game and knew he’d be good at it. But playing it required some concessions: clothing, shoes, school and team work, plus lots of words. Starting high school he'd struggled academically. But he quickly capitalized on his athleticism and good looks. He became popular not through words, but actions. His natural grace spoke for him. His smile charmed everyone. Gaining confidence, he'd turned smart-ass as his reputation grew. And then he'd met Paige and everything had crumbled around him. Holding her broken body he'd felt his confidence draining away with her life's blood. His mother sent him East to a new school, safe from the hunters. Where no one she knew would see the shame in his eyes. He’d never come home. Home became ashes. After the fire, he'd lost his words again, but nobody had been left to care.

And then there was Stiles popping into the front seat of a deputy's cruiser to confront a murderer, a monster. _Just so you know; I'm not afraid of you._ Stiles, who demanded words, never taking a stony glare for an answer. _What happens if Scott doesn't find your little magic bullet? Are you dying? What do you mean? What last resort? Oh, my God, what is that? Is that contagious? Positivity just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?_

Tell me. Show me. Teach me. Touch me. Trust me. 

_Hold on, Derek. Don't let go. Derek, come on._

_We are having sex, right? You want to, don't you? Don't you? Come on Derek, use your words._

Sitting on his bedside table watching Stiles sleep, Derek considered what he might say to the boy. He had no idea. His feelings seemed to defy words. Were they going to have sex? Did he want to? Yes. And no. Forearms resting along his thighs, hands clasped between his knees, Derek thought about the changes he’d like to make in his life. No more brooding. No more women. No more controlling everything. He was so tired of being alone. He just wanted to be part of the pack again. He traced his path backward to the first encounter he'd had with Scott McCall and Stiles. They had been searching for Scott’s asthma inhaler. And for Laura’s body he imagined, given later events. Derek had wanted them gone, nothing more. 

Stiles muttered something in his sleep, rolling to his side. He skimmed a hand over the covers as if searching for someone else in the bed. Derek watched the questing fingers until they stilled. He studied the contours of the Stiles hand, the bony wrist and the long tendons. Stiles had remarkable anatomy. He reminded Derek of a marionette, strings and wood and loose hinges. But his hands were not puppet hands. They belonged to some ancient artisan, a Reiki master or an alchemist. Derek viewed them as forbidden to him. And yet, some compulsion moved him to reach for this one. 

He leaned forward to slip his own fingers under Stiles' longer ones. Every nerve on edge, ready to pull away from a grasp, Derek held his breath as his fingers tickled past the sensitive palm. Stiles twitched and Derek's gaze leaped to his face. But Stiles slept on, oblivious to the touch. Derek used both of his own hands to turn the wrist over so Stiles' palm lay face up in his own. The lax fingers were slightly curled. Derek smoothed his thumb over them two at a time, opening them to examination. The fingerprints whirled with meaning. The chewed edges of the nails held traces of scent. 

If there were words for the feeling this hand evoked in him, they were far more terrifying than anything Derek had ever thought to say. He knew the legends of his kind. The books scattered around his apartment were full of stories like the one he was imaging. There were rare pairings, as honored and unlikely as the true Alpha. But the odds against him being half of such a blessing were astronomical. Especially in light of his track record with the opposite sex. Though, perhaps that had been the core issue as far as the universe was concerned. If his soul mate was male, then he had always looked to the wrong sort of opposite.

No one could be more opposite to him than Stiles. Tame where he was wild. Talkative to his stoic. Chaotic to his controlled. Messy to his neat. Awkward to his athletic. Connected to his aloof. Gay to his straight. Derek nearly laughed at that last thought. Stiles wasn’t gay, as far as Derek knew. In fact, the last he’d heard Stiles loved Lydia. And, quite obviously, Derek wasn't as straight as he'd always supposed, since he was definitely thinking of bending.

Stiles shifted, murmuring, and Derek’s gaze went to his face, again. He noted the rapid eye movement of dreaming. Derek braced himself as he looked for some sign of a nightmare. He listened to Stiles’ heart rate and breathing. Both had quickened, but neither seemed unnaturally fast. Derek fought against an urge to move closer, to lie down beside Stiles. He longed hold him as he slept, skim his own fingers along soft skin. Stiles moved his hand again, flipping it, pulling back until they were touching only at the fingertips. Then, just as rapidly, he shifted closer, gliding the flat of his palm up to Derek’s wrist. Their thumbs mirrored one another. Derek swallowed some of the moisture flooding his mouth. He glanced down at his lap where part of him stirred in response to this unconscious intimacy. Oh, yes, he liked those hands. He had to get out of here, before he gave in to his darker longings. 

But he couldn’t leave Stiles to wake up alone. Wouldn’t leave, in fact, until he was sure the nightmares were over. Stiles had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillows. But in the minute or so before he’d crashed, he had emptied his pockets. Keys, phone, wallet and change lay on the table next to Derek. The sight of the phone gave Derek an idea. He untangled their hands, picked up the cell and typed in the password to unlock it. In his head he could hear Stiles telling him that he would need that password someday. 

“What if I’m lying unconscious in a ditch, Derek? What if you want to call someone else to give me mouth to mouth? What if my hands are full holding you up or handcuffed behind me and all I can do is kick the phone to you?”

“Alright. I’ve got it.”

“And the one for my laptop is… And here are some spare keys. And, also, emergency contacts are under contacts comma emergency.”

“I’m calling Scott if you’re injured. If you’re dead in a ditch, I’m leaving you there.”

“Mouth to mouth?”

Derek gave him the tight little smile that said, “I’d advise you to keep breathing.”

In the end, after scrolling by Scott and Isaac and Home, Derek called Lydia Martin. She’d been the anchor for Stiles in the water ritual. It was technically her job to see him safely through these things. Lydia wasn’t happy, but she came. He’d caught her at the nail salon and, when she arrived, she reeked of fresh varnish. He nearly closed the door in her face. 

“How does Aiden stand that?”

“He waits until it dries, obviously,” Lydia said. “But you were rushing me. So, open a window or put up with the smell.” She stopped by the bed to stare down at Stiles. “He looks so peaceful,” she said. “Better than he has in weeks. How did you do that?”

“There’s an amulet. It clears the chakras. So they can sleep. I need to take the other ones to Scott.”

“I could take them,” Lydia offered. 

“I have to do other things, too.”

Lydia sighed and flounced into a chair. “Fine. I should charge you by the hour. But, Stiles is my friend, so…” She glanced at the stairs. “Where’s your creepy Uncle?”

“Not here.”

“What if he drops by?”

“Don’t let him in. In fact, don’t answer the door. Just sit with Stiles until I get back.”

“What if he wakes up?” She asked, just as Derek opened the door. 

“Say, hello.”

“What should we do until you get back?”

He sighed, turned and gave her the look that said, “Are you seriously going to keep asking me things?”

“We’ll play Words with Friends,” she said, fishing her phone out of her bag. “Or braid each other’s hair.”

“Wake him if he screams,” Derek said. “Call me if he won’t stop.”

***************************************************************

Derek took the other amulets to Scott. Scott called Isaac and Allison. While they waited for those two to arrive, Derek listened to Scott’s concerns about the pack and his father. The complaining went on for nearly thirty minutes. Finally, Derek broke free with an excuse and a promise to come to the next planning session. He thought about going back home. Thought about telling Lydia to leave and realized he should shop first. Stiles would probably wake up hungry. And maybe there was one other person who needed to know Stiles was alive and well.

The Sheriff answered on the first knock, yanking the door from beneath Derek's knuckles. He looked beyond Derek toward the street. His eyes searched frantically, but without success. 

“Where's my son?”

“Resting,” Derek said. “I'm Derek Hale.”

“I know who you are,” Stilinski said, his expression indicating that knowing gave him a bad taste in his mouth. Derek nodded. The sheriff probably remembered everyone he'd arrested for murder. “Where's Stiles? Is he hurt?”

“He's fine. At my place. Sleeping.”

“Alone?” The Sheriff started out the door. “He can't be alone.”

Derek blocked him, gently. One hand raised, but stopping short of actual contact. “He's not alone. And he's better now.”

“Better?”

“I found something to help with the dreams.”

The Sheriff stared at him as if Derek had suddenly revealed some hidden angelic qualities. Perhaps he had. “Oh, thank God!” The Sheriff stepped back, and then glanced behind him toward the darkened living room. “Are you like vampires? Do you need to be invited in?”

“We're like people,” Derek said with enough ice to kill early flowering familiarity.

“Right, sorry,” the Sheriff said, but he swung the door a little wider. “Want to come in?”

Derek hesitated, glancing over his own shoulder toward his car. He wanted to get back home, back to Stiles. He'd only intended to spare Stilinski some worry. But, it felt as if something should be settled between them. Turning back to the man, he gave a tiny nod. And the Sheriff stepped aside so Derek could move by him into the house. 

“Can I get you a coffee? A beer?”

“I don't drink,” Derek said. Then, hearing his mother's voice in his head insisting he mind his manners, he added, “Coffee is good.”

“You never drink? Ever?” Stilinski sounded shocked. 

“I have,” Derek told him. “It just doesn't work for me. We can't get drunk.”

“Bummer,” Stilinski said. And Derek couldn't help smiling just a little. Like father, like son, he thought. The Sheriff went on talking as he headed for the back of the house, again, exactly as Stiles would do. “Come on. I was just making a pot of Jamaican blend. It's my newest vice, designer coffee.”

Derek followed him through to the kitchen. He waved Derek toward the table. A chess board sat on it, along with a stack of Stiles' school books and some files with newspaper clippings inside. The latter could have belonged to either Stilinski, evidence of some investigation in progress. Derek scanned the room to avoid sitting. He wasn't comfortable in such a domestic setting. But he knew that his mother would expect him to behave like a proper guest. 

Seeing Derek studying the board, the Sheriff said, “Stiles tells me you play?”

Really? Derek cocked his head and lifted an inquiring brow at that. He had played chess, with Peter and his mother. But that was years ago. To his knowledge, he had never discussed that part of his life with Stiles. Nor had he shown any interest in the game. If anyone had asked him what his game was these days he would have said solitaire. 

Which made it all the more puzzling when he said, “I prefer Scrabble.”

“Oh-ho,” Stilinski chuckled, as he took down two mugs from the cupboard. “Be careful. Stiles is a fiend for word games. Words with Friends, as they call it now, is his favorite. I can't beat him. He gets that from his mother.”

Derek had an inexplicable urge to meet this woman. He could easily see what Stiles had inherited from his father. Bravery. Loyalty. Commitment to a cause. Strong shoulders. A set jaw and the stubborn streak to go with it. But, the hands were from his mother. And the mouth. And perhaps the quick mind, too. Derek looked around the room, again, imagining her in it. Though he couldn't recall ever seeing a photo of Claudia Stilinski, Derek could almost picture her cooking, doing dishes, chiding Stiles. These thoughts led to mental images of Stiles being domestic. The very idea of it calmed Derek at his core. And, well, that was sufficiently disturbing. 

“I feel like I should know you better,” Stilinski said, placing the steaming coffee before him. “I’m surprised our paths don’t cross more often. Cream or sugar?”

“Cream,” Derek admitted. Though he always wanted to say black, the truth was he found coffee a little too acidic.

“If you'd said sugar, I would have told you to taste it first,” the Sheriff said, turning back to the fridge to get the cream. “It's very smooth and sweet.”

“Why?” Derek said.

“Because of the soil, I think, volcanic mountains in Jamaica...”

Derek snorted lightly, almost chuckling as he was reminded again of Stiles. “I mean, why do you feel you should know me?”

“Oh, because Stiles talks about you constantly,” the Sheriff said as he sat down on the far side of the table. “Derek Hale. Derek Hale. Derek Hale. I think you are his fifth favorite thing.”

“Fifth?”

The Sheriff took a long pull on his coffee. Derek followed suit and hummed in satisfaction. The coffee was excellent. The Sheriff nodded and smiled.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he said. Then, setting his mug aside for a moment, he ticked off things on his fingers. “Scott. Lydia Martin. Star Wars. Surfing. You. Though, come to think of it you could be moving up in the rankings. He hasn't mentioned Obi Wan more than a dozen times this week. If you want to take a stab at knocking that Lydia Martin out of contention, I'd appreciate it.”

Derek really didn't know what to say to this. So he took another sip of coffee and then said, “Surfing?”

The Sheriff must have expected he would ask. He had dragged his phone from a pocket. After flipping through a few images to find a particular favorite, he held the phone out for Derek's inspection. There was a beautiful full body shot of Stiles slicing under a cresting wave. He wore only long shorts. Stripped to the waist, it was easy to see the play of his muscles. He looked younger, maybe 14, but his gaze seemed haunted. Poised on the board, he absorbed the shock of the surf with his bent knees. The fingers of one hand cut through the water, creating a contrail of foam. Derek couldn't help being impressed by such unconscious grace. And, as if he had the Stiles talent for reading expressions, the Sheriff responded to Derek's unspoken thoughts. 

“I know,” he said, with a grin. “The way he flails around, knocking into things, you wouldn't think it was the same kid. But he's a natural. Since he was four or five. Snowboarding, too. I think it's because it’s almost too much for him.” The Sheriff snapped a photo of the board and then started setting up for a new game. 

“The ocean?”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff said. “Or fresh powder on the slopes. This occult stuff. Fast, deadly, full of hidden dangers. He can focus in those conditions. I don't think the everyday world is enough of a challenge. He's fearless.”

“No, he's not,” Derek said, his eyes fixed on the chessboard. 

Stilinski went rigid with his fingers floating above a pawn. He peered up at Derek from under his brows. Derek met his eye. They shared a long, assessing stare, but finally the Sheriff slouched back in his chair again. Derek felt a shift in the underlying tensions of the room.

“No, he's not,” Stilinski agreed. “He's afraid of everything, but he's...impossible to intimidate.”

“I've noticed,” Derek said, deadpan.

“White or black?” the Sheriff asked him.

It was on the tip of Derek’s tongue to decline the game. He wanted to say that he didn’t have time for it. He needed to get back to his place and Stiles. But, something stopped him. Perhaps the raw intensity of his desire. With any luck Stiles would sleep through the night. Derek couldn't help him any more than he had. Maybe he should go to relieve Lydia. He considered her unreliable. No telling what sort of trouble she might get into, especially if Peter dropped by. But, there was something relaxing about this masculine atmosphere. 

There were still some traces of the deceased Mrs. Stilinski in the decor, but the energy signatures, the smells were all male. The only male bonding he’d ever done had happened in the locker room or on the basketball court, and most of that involved juvenile posturing. He had no memory of a father. His closest siblings were girls. Peter was a sociopath. The pack he’d created skewed too young to interest him intellectually. And he’d bonded with Stiles in a way that wasn’t conducive to relaxing, at least, not yet. 

“Black,” Derek said.

“Ah. See? That tells me you are willing to sacrifice immediate gratification for additional information.”

“Or, I like black,” Derek said. He held up his cup. “May I?”

“Help yourself,” Stilinski said, waving at the pot. “Bring me some, too.”

They took turns between gulps of coffee. The game moved quickly. Stilinski, used to playing for speed, pressed his advantage. But he found he couldn’t rattle his opponent. Derek’s play was rusty. And the Sheriff doubted he’d ever taken the game seriously, but he fought his way out of a couple tight corners. He wasn’t a brilliant strategist, but he had nerve. He was smart enough to intentionally slow his own pace under stress. The Sheriff knew Derek could hear his heartbeat. Stiles had explained about the lie detecting. And Derek had chosen not to mention how helpful such a skill could be in a game like chess. But he didn’t appear to be cheating, and after a time, the Sheriff decided he was tuning out the sound, a sign of an honorable opponent. Derek held his ground for a time, but the eventual winner was never in question. When Derek’s queen fell, he glanced at the window. It was growing dark out.

“I should get back,” Derek said, pushing away from the table.

“You want me to come take Stiles off your hands?”

“No,” Derek said as he started to rise. “He’ll be home as soon as he can drive.”

Stilinski held up a forestalling hand and Derek sank back into his chair again. “This has been civilized,” the Sheriff said. “But before you go, we should settle something. How old are you?”

“That’s a complicated question,” Derek said. 

“35?”

“Thirty--?” Appalled by the number, Derek came to his feet so quickly it sent his chair clattering backward. “No. Not even. I can’t be more than twenty-four or five by your years.”

“Still well over the legal limit,” the Sheriff said, leaning forward, palms down on the tabletop. “My son is 16. He’s not ready for…whatever it is you are doing.”

“Nothing,” Derek said. “And I can’t stop it.”

“I’ve got a .38 and a badge that says I can,” the Sheriff said.

Derek snorted. “Going to lock Stiles up, too? Until he’s 18?”

“Or 21 or married,” the Sheriff said. “Or I’ve died. Do you always target teenage boys? Like Isaac and Scott?”

“No! I--? No,” Derek said. A blush stung his cheeks. He could feel his hackles rising at the insinuation. “Peter turned Scott.”

“I know Isaac lived with you for a time. That you have some power over him.”

“I was his Alpha,” Derek said. “His leader. It wasn’t sexual.”

“And Stiles is?”

“I. It’s—uh, gah!” Derek put his hands to his head and rubbed his throbbing temples. Why had he come back to Beacon Hills? This town hated him. He wasn't ready to talk about this. But he understood the compulsion to protect Stiles from bad choices. It became ingrained very quickly. 

“Complicated?” the Sheriff guessed. And Derek nodded. 

“I can promise I’ll be careful with him,” Derek said. “Very careful.”

The Sheriff considered this for several long moments. Then, he relaxed again. “I suppose that’s more than the ocean ever promised me.”

“Or Lydia Martin?”

“Excellent point,” the Sheriff said. He rose, collecting coffee mugs. Hands full, he jutted his chin at the chessboard. “You want to play again sometime, let me know.”

“Maybe.”

“Or we can have a Scrabble night. Stiles would love that.”

Derek smiled, shaving those extra ten years off of his face in an instant. “And you can learn something else about me?” he said, understanding that the chess game had only been a vehicle for probing his psyche. 

“I won’t deny I want to see the two of you in the same room at the same time,” the Sheriff said. “So, indulge me.”

Derek lifted one brow. Then, he gave a terse nod and headed for the door. He was nearly out it when the Stilinski land line rang. 

*****************************************************************

Stiles woke with a start. It took him a moment to realize that the sweet dream he’d been having wasn’t real. He took another moment to savor how sweet it had been. Derek had been featured. But he was nowhere in sight. Stiles looked around and saw Lydia on the couch, listening to something on her phone. From the rhythmic bobbing of her head, he assumed it was music. Stiles yawned, slumping back down into the pillows. He turned his head to nuzzle one of them. 

“That’s disturbing,” Lydia called. “Don’t do that.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, raising one arm straight up and twiddling the fingers at her. He figured she couldn’t hear him, so he decided to try standing. 

Lydia walked over to the dining table, watching as he swayed. She didn't offer to help him. But she eventually turned off the music, probably because the song ended. 

“Didn't Derek sleep in that bed with Miss Blake? Mass murdering psycho sex happened and you still sniff the pillows?

“Thanks, Lydia. For, yet another gruesome picture of that in my head.”

“Hopefully, he changed the sheets.” Lydia added. “Can I go now? Are you better?”

“Better. Yeah. How long was I out?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Derek called me almost five hours ago.”

“Where is he?”

“Out? Werewolf business? Maybe he’s dead.”

“That's not funny.

“Sorry. I'm sure he's fine.”

Stiles patted his pockets and then glanced at the table where his phone, keys and wallet rested. 

“He never answers when you call him,” Lydia said, reading his mind. “I don’t think he knows how to use a phone.”

“He's called me,” Stiles told her, and then he remembered what she’d just said. “He called you? Why?”

“The voicemail part,” Lydia said, as if what she'd meant should have been self-evident. And, of course, it should have been. “A monkey could press the button for a contact list. Derek doesn’t listen to his messages. And, obviously, he didn't want to leave you alone.”

“Right. Sorry, I just wondered why he didn't call Scott or my dad.” Stiles yawned again. 

“Because I'm your anchor,” Lydia said. “And Scott is probably asleep by now.”

“Oh, right,” Stiles said. “You want me to take you home?”

“I have my car. And a date with Aiden.”

“You were going to miss a date for me?” Stiles felt his heartbeat quicken at the thought. “That’s so sweet.”

“No, silly. He was coming over here. But, now we can go somewhere nice.”

“And there it is,” Stiles said, as his momentary elation took a nose dive. 

He grimaced as he mind went to a sad place. He didn't want to think about what Aiden and Lydia might have done together while he lay there sleeping the long nap of the damned. Ick.

“You aren’t still pining are you?” Lydia asked, squinting at him. “Haven’t we moved past that?”

“We are so past that,” Stiles said in a brusque manner. 

“I hope so because it would never work. I like fast cars and dangerous men with lots of money. And you like Derek.”

“Not the way I like you,” Stiles blurted and then wished he could just fall through the floor. 

“I know,” Lydia said, gently. “You adore me.” She took a long pause for a yawn, before adding, “From afar.”

“Derek’s not gay,” Stiles said, as if that were somehow relevant to this conversation.

“No, he’s not. He's very heterosexual. Probably what makes the whole wanting to do you thing awkward.”

Stiles felt his heart clench. He knew Lydia could be insightful when she bothered to focus on other people. He wanted to ask more, know more. But Lydia’s phone chirped. She held up a silencing finger and took the call. Aiden, Stiles realized immediately. Somehow he didn’t have quite the same burning hatred that he usual felt for his rival. His eyes went to Derek’s luggage, still on the dining table. He had the vaguest recollection of a conversation about kissing. Use your words Derek. Had he tried to hit on Derek Hale? He wished he could remember anything after he took the amulet.

_Stiles. Stiles. Stiles. God._

He glanced at the bedside table. No journal. He looked back at Lydia. He’d have to wait for her to leave, before searching the drawer again. But if Derek wasn’t gay, and he wasn’t gay, what did it matter if they were attracted to one another on some spiritual level? This reminded him of one of those myths where the hero fell in love with a statue or a donkey or something, like in a Midsummer Night’s Dream. Only that was Shakespeare. Oh, God, was he in love with Derek Hale? That would be just like him. Another person he could never have, eternally doomed to “good friends” status. The universe didn't want him to have sex, ever. 

His stomach rumbled. He tried to remember when he'd last eaten. Breakfast had been a lifetime ago and Derek's cupboards were bare. He'd have to make a burger run or something. Picking up his phone, he saw he had a dozen voicemails and a couple of texts. The first messages were from his dad. Where are you? Pick up the damned phone. Then, he had five messages from Mrs. McCall. Listening to the first of those, he began shoveling change back into his pocket. Things were heating up on the supernatural front and Scott was out cold. Did Stiles know where Derek was? Or Chris Argent? Argent had also left messages for Stiles. He couldn't find Allison and the McCall lines kept going to voicemail. Stiles pressed the reply button for Mrs. McCall. 

“Stiles? Thank God! How long were you out?”

“Uh, six hours?”

“Good. Good. Maybe it's almost over. That friend of Ethan's came by, the exchange student? Very polite but so creepy. I didn't know what to say to him. Isaac is dealing with that. Scott is sleeping like he's in a coma. Allison drove her car into a hydrant.”

“Did you get Derek?”

“Finally. Yes. He was with your dad.”

“My dad?”

“At least he thought to tell one of the parents,” Melissa snapped. “He says I shouldn't try to wake Scott. Why didn't he warn me this would happen?”

“Communication issues. He probably told Scott.”

“He did. He forgot to mention no driving. What is going on?”

“It's a spell, I think,” Stiles told her. “Lifting the darkness from our hearts. So, Derek's right. We need to let it finish working.”

“I'm just so glad you're awake. How do you feel?”

“A lot better,” Stiles told her. “Don't worry. I'll be there in a few minutes. Can you make me a sandwich?”

“A sandwich?”

“Sorry, yeah. I'm starving, but I don't want to stop on the way.”

“I will make you the best sandwich. Just hurry.”

Stiles ended the call and pulled up his contact list. He pressed the speed dial for Derek and waited with no hope of anything but the voicemail. Derek answered on the first ring.

“I'm on my way back,” he said.

“I'm going to Scott's,” Stiles said. “Do you want to meet me there?”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah. Awake. Better. So much better that I'm not going to yell at you until later. How's Allison?”

Derek huffed into his phone, as if irritated. “Fine. She pulled off the road. Not hurt. But the cops couldn't wake her up.”

“The cops?”

“She hit a few things with the car.”

“God! Derek? Why didn't you stay with them?”

“Isaac was with them. I thought they were safe together. Why would she leave alone?”

“Safe?” Stiles sighed. “Okay, look. I'm going. Thank you for the amulets.”

“You need to eat something.”

“Scott's mom is making me a sandwich,” Stiles said. “See you later.” He hung up. Lydia was staring at him again. “What?”

“You shouldn't be so rude to him,” she said. “If I was your girlfriend, you would need to be nicer.”

“Yeah, I remember Jackson was a real prince.”

“He was sweet, at first,” Lydia said.

“Well, Derek is infuriating. And not my girlfriend.” He palmed his keys and headed for the door. “Let's go.”

“I'm just saying it's no wonder he hasn't put a move on you. Probably afraid you will mock him for his lack of experience and tell everyone, too.”

Stiles almost said something sarcastic, but caught himself in the nick of time. Smart comebacks would only prove Lydia's point for her. He chewed on his bottom lip as they took the elevator down to their cars. Maybe he should be nicer to Derek. What would that even feel like? On some level, Stiles knew Derek needed support and tenderness from someone. But, it went against their very natures to be emotionally vulnerable. Stiles defended himself with barbed wit. And Derek's shell was impossible to crack. 

Trying to visualize a different relationship, Stiles couldn't help remembering how his parents used to be with one another. They remained civil and united even when very angry. Your mom is a person, first, his dad told him once. Not just someone who makes us feel bad or good. Stiles had always imagined he would be best friends with his theoretical future lover. Not that he and Derek were lovers or ever would be. But were he and Derek friends? Yeah! But maybe not as close as they should be on a person to person level. Flying sparks kept getting in their way. 

He said his farewells to Lydia, as he slipped into the driver's seat of the jeep. Watching her walk to her car, he pulled out his phone again. He keyed up Words With Friends and sent a request to Derek's phone for a game. After a slight hesitation, he added a text message.

_Maybe we both need to practice using our words._

The End


End file.
